“We tell her tonight,” Bridget said. “Everything. About Wyatt, about the files, about the description.” She met Kevin’s eyes. “Before someone else tells her first.”
Kevin pulled her into his arms, and Bridget let herself lean into him—just for a moment.
“Together,” he said against her hair. “We do this together.”
Bridget nodded against his chest. The parking lot was dark now, the last light fading from the sky. Somewhere in White Rock, Wyatt was probably sitting at his computer, tracking searches, making connections.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jo knew something was wrong the moment she pulled into the driveway.
Kevin’s car was parked beside Bridget’s, which wasn’t unusual—he’d been coming around more often lately, and Jo had pretended not to notice the way they looked at each other. But this was different. The lights in the cottage were on, casting warm rectangles across the gravel, and through the window she could see two figures sitting in the living room. Not moving. Not talking.
Waiting.
Jo sat in her truck for a moment, keys still in the ignition, watching. Her cop instincts were screaming at her—the same instincts that had been screaming for days now, telling her that everyone around her was hiding something.
Apparently, tonight was the night she found out what.
She killed the engine and walked up to the porch. Pickles was curled on the rocking chair, his orange fur catching the light from inside. He blinked at her—slow, knowing—then went back to watching the darkness beyond the trees.
“Hey, buddy,” Jo murmured, scratching behind his ears. “You know something I don’t?”
Pickles offered no answer. Cats never did.
Jo pushed open the front door.
Bridget and Kevin were sitting on the couch, close but not touching. They both looked up when she walked in, and Bridget’s face?—
Bridget’s face told her everything before anyone said a word.
Jo had seen that expression before. Years ago, when Bridget had shown up on her doorstep strung out and desperate, finally ready to admit she needed help. The look of someone about to crack open something they’d kept locked away for too long.
“What’s going on?” Jo asked, though part of her didn’t want to know.
“Sit down,” Bridget said quietly. “Please.”
Jo didn’t sit. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching them both. In the corner, Finn circled his tank in lazy loops, oblivious to the tension filling the room.
“Jo.” Kevin’s voice was gentle. “You’re going to want to sit down for this.”
Something in his tone made her move. She lowered herself into the armchair across from them, her back straight, her hands resting on her knees. Cop posture. Interrogation posture. She couldn’t help it.
The silence stretched. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, a soft whisper against the windows. Pickles appeared on the sill, pressing his nose to the glass like he wanted to watch from a safe distance.
Bridget took a breath. Then she started talking.
She started with the parts Jo already knew. The streets. The addiction. The bad people she’d fallen in with when she was young and desperate and didn’t know any better. But then she went further—deeper into territory she’d never shared before.
The Binding Chain. The organization she’d worked for, briefly, before she’d gotten out. The things she’d seen. The things she’d done.
Jo listened without interrupting. Her face stayed neutral, but inside, pieces were clicking into place. The way Bridget had always been so careful about her past. The way she flinched at certain questions. The gun Jo had found hidden under her bed last year and never mentioned.
When Bridget finished, her hands were shaking. Kevin’s arm had found its way around her shoulders at some point, and she leaned into him like he was the only thing keeping her upright.
“There’s more,” Kevin said quietly. He looked at Jo. “I’ve been doing some digging. Quietly. Trying to find out what we’re dealing with.”
“And?”